Work Text:
Martin hummed, absentmindedly listening to Gonff and he rubbed at his wrist. His paw kept dipping, and he knew without looking that there was a groove there.
The cut of manacles, scarring flesh beneath fur.
“-so I ses-”
Martin wants to listen, he really does; Gonff is an amazing story-teller if nothing else. But his mind catches on questions; questions with no leads, no answers.
He may have found out what happened to his father so, so long ago. But what about after him? What had happened to Martin, between the cold, Northern shores he called home, and his wandering to Mossflower?
(What has caused scars shorn into his flesh, his back a criss-cross of marks and his paws calloused so? This was not the work of simple sword training, nor travel.
Who had held him down, locked him up?
Who had let him go-?)
“Oi! Are ye listenin’?” Gonff is waving a paw in front of Martin’s face, pulling him from the corners of memories long burned. “Or are ye dreamin’?” Gonff places his paws on his hips, eyes twinkling.
But then that twinkle falters, Gonff droops; all the while like an echo in the back of his mind he remembers whispers of promise will never speak of will leave.
“I’m okay, Gonff,” he takes his friend’s paw and pats it. “Promise. Just. . .” there’s the hollow thwock of wood that rings out, “. . .wonderin’ what’s fer lunch.”
This brings some of that sparkle back, and Gonff pulls Martin along with a gleeful chortle. “Why wonder when we c’n jus’ take?”
And Martin can’t help but laugh as well, questions and worried gently being shoved to the wayside as they go to eat a wonderful Abbey lunch.